It’s Bad Daddy

Every year in the United Kingdom our government sits down to discuss new rules, and the weekend just gone we introduced a new rule too. Before sitting down to dinner, you have to wash your hands. Before you claim we are going ‘old school’ and was that really necessary, you needed to have seen the state of my kids hands. Some our of our kids could have grown plants with the amount of dirt in their hands. The new rule has been going okay so far, but tonight they were downhill faster than a bus with no brakes. As we sat down, we asked both kids to wash their hands, one shot out the kitchen like a greyhound at a dog track, and the other just sat there. Upon intense questioning why one child was stationary, they turned round and I kid you not, I quote, “It’s okay I washed my hands this morning!” Sorry kids, but last time I studied hygiene, it said washing your hands once a day is called minging. Following a rocket up their bottom, they washed their hands before the meal.

The next day was Friday, and Friday evening as far as I am concerned is pudding night, where my wife and I allow ourselves a pudding. My wife smiled and pulled a box out of the freezer which was salted caramel ice cream, and draped the box with her hands like a model. Sorry my little hand model, but the eyes have already agreed, and the stomach is starving, so can we cut to me holding one. My wife then proceeded to spend what seemed like an eternity trying to open the box, with one side having bright large letters saying ‘easy opening’, so after watching paint dry I pointed out the easy opening tab. No sooner was I holding the ice cream than my little girl came downstairs, and although very late said she had to sing a song she had just learnt. Really!? Could the song not wait, my ice cream has been out of the freezer for around five minutes already, and was disappearing at an alarming rate, but no we had a rendition. I forgot how many versus to the song, but as she stopping singing I clapped like a seal at a zoo, seeing fish. I cuddled my little girl and pleaded for her to go to bed. Eventually I sat down and licked my ice cream.

When Captain Chaos stood up it was revealed his clothes had been cut up like some Frankenstein creation.

Saturday morning arrived and peace reigned. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? It was too quiet! It was not long before we found out why they were quiet. My kids had found a plaster of paris craft kit, and had mixed the plaster of paris themselves, mostly using the floor to mix it, the table and the hallway by the front door, but that was not the best bit. To mix the paints, which were glitter paints they poured them straight onto one of our best serving trays and mixed them directly on that. Now you may be thinking what’s one of our best serving trays? Easy, that’s the non chipped tray with two handles still attached. When my wife found the crime scene before I did there was a chemical reaction, then an explosion, and I went to hide for a bit while the crime was investigated, suspects were interviewed and witnesses were called to account. The judge, my wife, delivered her verdict and finally when the court room was dismissed I returned to help clear up.

Now the rest of Saturday was non eventful, but Sunday started with a debate on hair conditioner. I have virtually no hair, so shampoo as far as I am concerned is the stuff of wizardry. My little girl showered herself and when she came down my wife asked did you use hair conditioner first, or last? I personally did not care what was first as long as the bottles were put back and not dumped on the floor. Apparently there was a difference, and my little girl had got it right, however my wife felt her hair and said it felt like a swamp. A swamp!? Just how cheap is this hair conditioner that we were buying, but apparently my little girl had not washed it out, so back she went again like a dog being told it was bath night. My little girl was not happy, but back she went and peace reigned in the house again.

Peace did not reign very long when my wife and little girl had left the house. Captain Chaos was upset, and explained he had caught his belly button in his zip, and had injured himself. I managed to calm him down and put the situation right, and explained it could have been worse, a lot worse! Most men have done a similar injury lower downstairs and screamed like a teenager at a rock concert. Fortunately it was only the bellybutton, and he was now happy.

Sunday afternoon floated by until dinner time when Captain Chaos announced he was practising being a fashion designer, come tailor. Well when I say practising, it was during dinner that my wife let out a little scream, followed by “What happened!?” When Captain Chaos stood up it was revealed his clothes had been cut up like some Frankenstein creation. Apparently the story goes he slipped with the scissors. Now a slip to me is like a centimetre, but this was more than a centimetre, a lot more. Following a heated discussion I kept my head down during dinner to within a few inches of my plate. When dinner was announced it was over, I shot upstairs like a greyhound for safety, only to find my bedroom had been trashed by the kids.

Could Sunday get any worse? Please don’t answer that people, we both know the answer.

Night, night, see you all next week bright as a button.